


If There's Anything to Say, If There's Anything to Do

by grandeicedcoffees



Category: My Own Private Idaho (1991)
Genre: Emotional Phone Calls, Hopeful Ending, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-29 09:03:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19016722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grandeicedcoffees/pseuds/grandeicedcoffees
Summary: Mike finds himself on a road he doesn't know, with just the clothes on his back.





	If There's Anything to Say, If There's Anything to Do

**Author's Note:**

> The story behind this is that when I went to see John Wick 3 one of the trailers that played before it had a collect call and the character said "It's Mike" and I couldn't stop thinking about it, so I took a break from working on my other MOPI fic to write this. The title is from Sufjan Stevens' "For the Widows in Paradise, for the Fatherless in Ypsilanti." Enjoy!

A small groan escapes Mike’s mouth as he lifts his head up from the pavement. He winces as he sits up further, his muscles aching. He blinks his eyes to take in his surroundings and tries to focus for any landmark before he realizes that he doesn’t know where he is. His jaw twitches.

Mike is used to waking up on the street, that’s nothing new, but he can usually pick out where he is from the stores, or statues around him, or even just the look of the road. But nothing he’s seeing looks familiar. He likes to think he’s familiar enough with Portland and Seattle to know his way around, but it doesn’t look like he’s in either place.

Looking to either side of himself, Mike doesn’t see his duffel bag, and he checks his pockets for his wallet, or any cash. Nothing.

“Shit,” he breathes. He brings his knees to his chest as a cold wind blows by, but it only exposes his shins to the cold. Stupid pants are too short. He wishes he had a heavier coat, and he shivers a bit.

A john had picked him up last night in Portland, someone he’d never dealt with before. But the guy promised him a lot of money, and he didn’t look like a creep, so Mike thought it would be okay. He had driven them outside the city, Mike hadn’t known where. He kicks himself for not asking.

Mike can’t remember much after they got to the hotel, he must have passed out pretty quickly. He sighs. Coke had been scarce lately, and he seemed to be passing out more and more. He drags his hands down over his face and makes a noise in the back of his throat when it hurts. He presses his fingers to his jaw, feeling where there must be a bruise. The john must have hit him, hard, before stealing all his stuff. Jackass.

Every other time Mike’s woken up somewhere with no one around, he’s at least known how to get back. Even when he’s been robbed in the past, he can walk somewhere, or his brother finds him. But he doesn’t even know where he is this time. And he doesn’t have any money.

Mike sighs again. He can feel a lump in his throat, and his brows draw together as he feels his eyes fill with tears of frustration. He squeezes them shut and stomps a foot on the ground, choking out a single sob.

He takes a breath to collect himself. If he gets too upset, he might pass out again. He shivers again and curses the john that didn’t even leave him with his coat.

Resting his head against the brick behind him, Mike sees a police officer walking down the sidewalk. Knowing that he’s probably been there a while, and afraid of being ticketed for loitering or something stupid, he gets up as quickly as he can, and walks in the opposite direction. His fingers twitch, looking for a cigarette.

He briefly considers whether he could try to get picked up again to get enough money to go home, but with the bruise on his face, he doesn’t think he’ll have much luck. Besides, he’s not feeling up to it, and he doesn’t know what spots the johns frequent.

Mike spies a payphone up the block. No one he knows in Portland has a phone. The phone at Jane’s is rarely working, and on the off chance that it is, he doesn’t have the money to pay for the call. Dick refuses collect calls on principle, no matter if they’re from his brother or not.

Just as he’s about to pass it, Mike remembers that there is one person whose number he knows, but he hesitates. He likes to think that Scott can’t hurt him any more, it’s been nearly a year since they’ve seen each other, longer since they last spoke, but thinking about Scott, and what they shared, Mike has to admit that it stings.

Mike had heard people say that time heals all wounds, and he guessed that was true, but this had left a scar, the kind that aches when it rains, or when he sees something that reminds him of his former friend. The kind of scar you can’t help but touch.

That scar is aching now, as Mike considers calling Scott. He bites at the inside of his cheek as he leans against the glass of the phone booth. He can’t see any other options, and if Scott hangs up on him, he’ll just have to face the embarrassment. Mike’s heart beats loudly in his chest as he dials for the operator, then Scott’s number, hoping it hasn’t changed.

Years ago, when Scott was still just dipping his toes into street life, spending some nights at his parents’ home, he had given Mike his home phone number in case of emergency. Somehow Mike never forgot it. Mike fidgets with the cord as the phone rings for a fourth time, and Mike’s losing hope that Scott’s home.

On the fifth ring, there’s a click and Mike hears a deep voice. His heart seems to stop.

“Scott Favor,”

The robotic voice begins to play.

 _You have a collect call from. Caller, state your name,_ “It’s Mike,” he says into the receiver, voice gravelly. He clears his throat.

On the other end of the line, Scott fumbles the phone, nearly dropping it. His heart pounds. As he brings it back up to his ear, he hears the tail end of the robotic message: _if you accept the charges_.

Thankfully he knows the number to dial, and he does with a shaky hand.

“Mike?”

Mike opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

“Mike, are you there?”

He coughs to clear his throat. “Hey, Scott. Long time.” He cringes as the words leave his mouth.

Scott laughs, but it doesn’t sound hollow like Mike thinks he will. It doesn’t sound like it did when Scott would laugh at Bob, it still sounds warm, like when they were alone. Mike looks down at his feet, a flush creeping onto his cheeks. He chides himself for letting Scott get to him like this, especially after all this time, especially since he’s hardly said anything.

“So, uh…” Scott swallows, loud enough for Mike to hear. “What’s up? Why’re you calling?” He suddenly sounds reserved, and Mike hears shuffling on the end of the line.

“I, um…” Mike sighs, squeezing his eyes shut, swallowing his pride. Or what’s left anyway, a good chunk was already gone from just making the call. “I’m in trouble, Scott. I woke up on a street I didn’t recognize, in a town I don’t recognize, and some dick robbed me last night. I—I don’t know what else to do.” Mike’s grip on the phone is so tight his knuckles are white.

“Mike—” Scott says. Mike knows that tone of voice.

“Fuck, forget it, forget I called, go back to forgetting about me—” Mike moves to hang up.

“Wait!”

Mike brings the phone back to his ear, pressing his forehead against the metal covering on the phone. He waits for Scott to say something, but nothing comes.

“Bye, Scott.”

“Mike, no. I… I just. I haven’t forgotten about you.”

Mike blinks in surprise, then his lip curls as resentment creeps in. “Sure as hell feels like it,” he bites out.

“Look—” Scott starts, but Mike cuts him off.

“Scott, you—you know how hard this is for me, man? To be talking to you, calling you after all this time? To admit that, that I—I need you for something?” A sob escapes his mouth before he can stop it. “You… you were my best friend and you just… left me.”

“Mike. Mikey…” his voice sounds thick

“Don’t. Just… will you pick me up? Please?” his voice breaks as he repeats himself “Please?”

Scott is silent for a few moments again. The silence rings in Mike’s ears, and he can see the edges of his vision begin to blur. He shuts his eyes and focuses on the cool metal pressing against his head, trying to stave off the incoming fit. He’s close to hanging up until he hears Scott’s voice, quietly in his ear.

“Yeah, yeah, man, I’ll get you. Where are you?” Scott sniffles, though Mike is sure he wasn’t supposed to hear it.

Mike opens his eyes and stands up straight. His jaw drops a little. He’d hoped, of course, but he wasn’t actually expecting Scott to come.

“I—uh…” Mike looks around outside the phone booth, realizing he doesn’t have the name of the town. His eyes land on a building across the street; Downtown Bend Library. “I’m in Bend, I guess”

“Okay. Is there a park you can wait in?” Mike can hear Scott reaching for a pen and paper. “Do you have an intersection?”

Mike looks around again, “I’m at, uh, north-west Wall and north-west Louisiana. I’ll try to find a park nearby.” He pauses for a moment. “Should I, um, expect a town car or…?”

Scott chuckles lightly at that. “No, no. I, uh. I don’t really do that anymore. I’ve gone a lot simpler. Since the last time you saw me. Don’t worry about the car.”

Mike nods before remembering Scott can’t see it. “Okay.”

“Okay. See you soon.”

“Scott?”

“Mmm?”

“Thanks.”

“Of course. Anything.”


End file.
